Work Text:
Sherman did not know anyone in the room. Everyone from his cavalry unit had gone home to their own towns when the Great War was over, and Sherman had gone home to his. A lot had happened since then. He had gotten married and was adjusting to civilian life as best he could. The army had done it’s best to honor the returning veterans with songs and parades and a bonus with interest. This honoring occasionally included dinners in which towns would thank the veterans for all they had done overseas—this was one of those dinners.
The buffet at the dinner tasted horrible, but it was better than army food. Sherman sat in the corner of the room picking at his plate and wishing that there was alcohol being served. He was allowed to go to another country and kill people, but he was not allowed to drink alcohol.
“Nothing about that makes sense,” Sherman sighed. He expected Mildred to reprehend him for talking to himself, but he remembered that she was not there—someone had to stay home to look after their first born child and it could not be the person who was being honored.
“Why is that?” a small voice asked from next to him.
Sherman jumped. He looked up from his plate, but no one was standing there.
“Do you usually talk to yourself,” the voice asked again.
Sherman looked down and saw a girl no older than five standing next to him. She had bright blonde hair and was tugging at the sleeves of an uncomfortable looking yellow dress with little sunflowers printed on it.
“Depends on if I have anything I need to tell myself,” Sherman replied. Is this how you talk to children? He thought. Despite recently having his own, he seemed to always fail at interacting with children. God help him when his own started talking.
The girl tilted her head to think over his answer, and then nodded. He seemed to have passed some sort of test in the little girl’s mind.
“My Father is here to give a speak. He’s important,” she said, switching from tugging at her sleeves to tugging at the bow on her head.
Sherman did not bother to correct her grammar, “is he now? That must make you proud.”
“I guess,” the girl shrugged her shoulders, “he’s always gone.”
“The army is a hard life. I’m sure he still cares about you,” Sherman tried to sound comforting. This conversation was hitting a little to close to home for him. He hoped that his kid never felt as neglected as this girl looked.
“He forgot my birthday last week,” the little girl said, “mommy says I’m not suppose to tell people that. She says it’s because he’s busy with army stuff and I should forgive him.”
“Do you forgive him?” Sherman asked.
“I guess,” she answered, “I’m going to join the army and forget birthdays when I get older. My father says so.”
This guy sure sounds like a piece of work, Sherman thought.
“What day was your birthday?” Sherman asked.
The girl started to count of her fingers, and after a minute she held up three, “my birthday was three days ago but we didn’t do anything—“
“Margaret!” a women’s voice cut in, “don’t bother this nice young man.”
Margaret turned toward the women and became silent.
“Oh she isn’t bothering me Miss,” Sherman said, but the women didn’t seem to hear him.
“It’s impolite to bother strangers, say you’re sorry,” the women said.
“I’m sorry mister,” the girl said, looking down at the floor.
“Nothing to apologize for kiddo,” Sherman answered.
The women gave Sherman one last apologetic glance before picking up the girl and carrying her toward the table where the Major’s families where sitting. From where he was sitting, Sherman could see the little girl—Margaret, as her mother had called her—sitting in a chair much to big for her and rocking her feet back and forth as the adults talked around her.
Sherman moved to put his plate in the pile of dirty dishes when he spotted a baker in the back room of the town hall where the dinner was being held. The baker was frantically trying to pipe cupcakes that seemed misshapen. Sherman looked behind him before slipping into the back room.
“Sorry sir,” the baker said anxiously as he rushed to spread vanilla icing on top of the sweets, “they will be done in a minute I swear.”
“Oh I’m not in charge here,” Sherman said holding up his hands, “and they all look great. I’m sure some of these boys have never had a cupcake in their life so anything is fine. Do you want some help?”
The baker looked up for the first time since Sherman walked in the room. He said nothing for a moment as if expecting the question was a test to see whether or not he could do his job. The baker was obviously desperate and in over his head because he accepted the help.
“Sure, just ice these over here,” the baker gestured at the pile closest to Sherman and went back to icing his own pile.
Sherman took up a knife and began to spread icing on the small cakes. He had helped Mildred a couple of times bake a cake, so he was proud of himself for at least having some idea about what to do.
When he had finished, the baker thanked him profusely and offered him the first cupcake. This gave Sherman an idea.
“Do you have any other colour of frosting than white that I could use?” Sherman asked.
“Well, I was going to make them red and white, but the red turned out a pink grey colour, so I didn’t use it. It’s in that jar right there. Help yourself, it’s the least I can do for all your help,” the baker answered before carrying the tray of finished cupcakes out to the buffet.
Sherman took the first cupcake from the batch and grabbed the jar of pink-grey frosting.
.
.
.
Margaret was bored. Her mother had got up from the table to go talk to the colonel’s wife, and had left her alone.
The noise of someone approaching made her look up. It was the man from the other table.
“Hey there, kiddo,” the man said.
“Hello, mister,” Margaret answered.
“Call me Sherman,” the man told her.
“Okay,” she said, “why are your hands behind your back mister Sherman?”
“Well, because I have a surprise for you,” Sherman grinned.
“What kind of surprise?” she asked.
“It’s a little late, but it’s a Birthday surprise,” Sherman said.
Margaret’s eyes got wide, “really?”
Sherman moved his hands behind his back and set a cupcake down in front of her. It had white frosting with tiny pink writing on it. Margaret took a minute to read what was on the cupcake.
“Hap- Happy Bi- Birth day Margaret,” she sounded out, “Happy. Birthday. Margaret.”
As soon as he processed what she had read her face lit up, and she grinned from ear to ear. She hopped out of her chair and threw her arms around Sherman’s legs.
“Thank you mister Sherman!” she smiled.
Sherman smiled back and patted her on the head gently, “You're welcome. Happy Birthday, Margaret.”